Heart of Glass
by fallenaelin
Summary: AU where Sam lives. Follows the adventures of Celaena and Sam in the southern continent as well as Dorian, Nehemia, Chaol, and Nox in Erilea (and more, along with a few OC's).
1. Chapter 1

The crew was hesitant to let them on at first, but her smiles and his vibrant disposition persuaded them. Emigration laws in Adarlan—and immigration laws in other countries—were strict, but the couple was able to bypass all of them because they were young and beautiful and they seemed to have enough gold spilling from their pockets into the bar tabs of just the right people.

When asked why they hoped to move to Ankura, the man replied with ease, "I wish to establish a business, and my wife here wants a change of scenery."

"Welcome aboard, Mr. and Mrs. de Haven," the captain greeted them personally.

He showed them to their rooms, not hesitating to brush his hands all over the two. No doubt to gain pleasure from doing so and to assess how much coin they carried. How much they could afford to pay. The woman—a girl, really—smiled wickedly at the captain, knowing precisely what he was doing and knowing that he'd have better luck finding gold if he grabbed a pickaxe and started tearing up the streets of Rifthold. She didn't like how he touched her at all, but she liked how he was nearly squirming under her murderous gaze.

Only when the captain opened the door to the small, but personal cabin they had rented for the journey; notified them when dinner was; unsuccessfully attempted to assist them with their luggage _again_ ; reminded them once more that dinner was at eight o'clock sharp in his own quarters; and after they had affirmed his reminder; and after he finally closed the door to let them attend their own business, did they exhale deep breaths.

"I swear I'm going to kill him," Sam Cortland said.

"Not before I do," Celaena Sardothien retorted, dumping her bags on the floor before unbuttoning her pea coat angrily. The ship was so damned stuffy. She huffed as she threw the velvet coat onto the miniscule bed. She suddenly, desperately, wished for her baby blue frock which would be more comfortable to wear in this sauna than her current outfit. Then she remembered that her pretty clothes had gone to the brig along with all of her books. Sam had gently reminded her that they had to share the ship, and she could not, in fact, keep all of her belongings in their room. No, instead she could only bring two small bags with tunics and leggings, and only one evening dress. Even worse, the only pair of shoes she had were the ones on her feet. But the worst thing of all was that her jewelry—all of it—was sewn into small pockets of the gown she was wearing currently, so they could sell it once they reached the southern continent.

The southern continent. She smiled at the thought. Of course, she would miss Rifthold—the theaters, the Keep, the shops—but not by much. She was leaving behind more bad memories than good ones. She was running towards a better life.

With Sam.

Sam. The boy in question was throwing their bags into the small closet, slamming the door shut after them. Naturally, it slowly creaked back open. He sighed and let it be, taking the three small steps he needed to to sit next to her on the bed. The only other furniture in the room was a small desk with an attached bench. There was a porthole as well, but it was so covered in grime that Celaena had initially thought it had been a mold spot. Until she realized that it was letting in the little amount of light that was present in the otherwise dim, grim cabin.

She suddenly regretted boarding the first ship out of Adarlan. Surely in a few weeks, there would be a nicer one on its way south. Then she remembered why they were in such a hurry to leave, and she sighed. It was only for a few weeks, anyway. And she, the most wanted assassin in pretty much all of Erilea, had faced much, much worse.

Sam stroked the silk lining of her pea coat, eventually stretching out his hand, asking wordlessly for Celaena's, which she gave to him almost instinctively.

"Well, Mr. Isaac de Haven," Celaena said.

"Well, Mrs. Maria de Haven," Sam said.

"Well."

"Well."

* * *

Gods, it was boiling in this useless excuse for a kingdom, Celaena thought as she stepped out onto the deck as they landed, one month later, in Ankura. The crew was busy, taking down sails, untying and retying knots, hustling passengers down the plank onto the pier, throwing luggage in a chain of men from the brig to the dock. She could nearly swear that she saw some passengers—mostly women and children—kissing the wooden boards of the first land they could touch since their brief landing in Banjali twenty-two days prior.

Sam was chatting up with the captain, prying as much information he could out of him of the city; their new home.

Celaena fanned herself with a piece of folded up parchment, her head thankfully protected by a scarf from the bulk of the sun's rays, but it worked to no avail to blow away the humidity. She wasn't quite sure whether the dampness on her skin was water droplets from the air or her own sweat—and she wasn't quite sure which prospect was worse either.

Occasionally, boys stumbled in front of her view of the city—the mud and brick and wooden buildings with the rain forest in the distance—attempting to flirt with her. Normally, she would love the attention, but it was just so _hot_.

"Sam!" she snapped finally.

He looked up at her, then back down at the captain. They said their goodbyes, shook their hands, and he and then he was strolling along the way towards her—unfairly, seemingly unaffected by the atrocious climate.

"What do you think?" he grinned.

She brushed one of her sweaty hands along his cheek in answer.

They walked for several blocks until they reached _The Typhoon_ , a fairly decent inn which the captain had told them would surely be accommodating to the two, but wouldn't rob them of all their purse if they couldn't find a more permanent residence within a few months.

Celaena let Sam negotiate with the manager, choosing to wander into the bar. She walked up to a large table with men—traders, no doubt, from both Erilea and this continent, based on their looks—playing Adarlanian-style poker. "What are you boys up to?" she drawled, purposefully chopping up the main southern dialect, Madhavi.

They grinned at her ferociously. She nearly rolled her eyes at that, but she managed to restrain herself from slitting their throats, and accepted their invitation to sit down with them. Celaena did her best to feign innocence at their lewd comments and after one of them purposefully explained the rules to her poorly, and unsuccessfully attempt to pull her onto his lap, she accepted their invitation to play.

"Bitch is hot."

"Bets on who can get her into bed first?"

She ignored their comments coolly, used to them as well as trying to keep up her false image. While she refused to let herself lose outright, the cards she played were not winning ones. More often than not, she folded perfectly useful hands.

That is until Sam walked up from behind her and encircled his arms around her waist. She stretched her neck out, purring at the kisses he placed there. They suffered more wildly scandalous comments from the men.

The next round, she pushed all of her gold into the middle of the table. The men grinned at her again, showing off rotten teeth and mischievous eyes. None of them folded.

The best hand from any of them was a full house. "This was fun," she said, using the correct order of words for the first time in perfect Madhavi, topped off with an impeccable accent, as she laid down her cards: a two, a three, a four, a five, and a six of diamonds.

She giggled, collected her winnings, and was out of the room in seconds, with Sam in tow. He twisted his way out of her loose grip and stomped his way up two flights of stairs, pulling her with him.

"Tell me: are they going to try and kill us in our sleep tonight?" he yelled at her the moment he slammed the door of their roomy room. Celaena took the sight in in appreciation. The furniture was a bit worn, but still of quality. And it didn't smell too bad. It was almost clean. Perhaps she didn't mind the less than perfect quality condition of the room because she had, after all, just spent the last month of her life on a rotting ship.

"It's not like we couldn't take them," she said.

"This is supposed to be our new start, Celaena, for the gods' sakes! This is supposed to be our start to a _real_ life!"

There was a knock on the door. When Sam pulled it open angrily, with his hand creeping towards a hidden dagger Celaena noted, a young-looking man smiled at them. "Your luggage, Sir and Madam," he said with a strong Ankuran accent.

"Thank you," Celaena smiled, when Sam didn't say anything. Half a dozen men filed into the room, bringing in two suitcases and one hatbox each. She'd sold most of her assets in Rifthold before boarding the ship, but there were some things she couldn't quite let go of. When they left, politely wishing the couple a good day and closing the door with no more than a creak and a click, Sam started to shout again.

"Relax," she whispered, moving to wrap her arms around him. She rocked the two of them from side to side, as if he were a baby in a cradle. "Their ship leaves at the next high tide."

He calmed, his chest deflating and his muscles relaxing. "What am I going to do with you?" he laughed moments later.

"That's a comfortable looking bed," she suggested.


	2. Chapter 2

**_ONE YEAR LATER_**

Her hands began to twitch when the Fae woman walked into the shop. It had been something she had noticed happening to her the very first week in Ankura. Magic. Magic was here, and it wanted her. The first time she had felt it was when she had grown angry at seeing another girl flirting with Sam. _Her_ Sam, she had thought. She had felt like a volcano. Like a spring coiled and ready to strike out. It had been a feeling that had been suppressed for eight years bubbling up—from the deepest, darkest parts of her heart, headed straight for her skin— _burning_ to be let out.

Celaena had ran from the room, ran out of _The Typhoon_ to nowhere, to anywhere. And if she was being honest with herself, it hadn't been away from the situation. It had been from herself.

Sam had found her on the docks hours later, when it had been dark. He hadn't said a word. Neither of them had. But they had held hands on their way back—he had held her heart and led it home. Since then, they had never talked about that night, that day. Despite the numerous times he had reassured her that she could tell him anything. She knew that. She just didn't know if she could admit the truth to herself. She didn't even want to think about it.

Celaena didn't know why the woman made her feel uneasy; she just did. Perhaps it was because she was Fae, perhaps it was because she was magic, or perhaps it was a second nature rising up in her—primal and territorial, monstrous.

She stepped out from behind the counter of her bookstore, walking straight up to the woman, and asked politely what she could do to help. "I don't quite know yet," the woman purred, flicking her eyes up from a scroll to gaze at her, through her—as if she were made of glass.

"If you require anything, please let me know," Celaena said, barely stopping her fear from leaking through her voice.

"I will," the woman said. "… Maria." Celaena didn't take more than a second to take in the sight of her, her tall, curved body, toned muscles curled under flawless cacao skin, a dark contrast to full amber eyes flecked with gold. Artfully arranged raided rows of hair draped down her back like a waterfall. Her clothes comprised of a white cotton skirt draping down to just below her knees; a cropped, sleeveless red silk shirt; and leather sandals which were more strap than shoe. Her cheekbones were so sharp, Celaena felt that she would cut her hands if she dared to touch them.

The entire walk back to her counter, she held her breath. She sat down as calmly as she could, her back rigid, her chin tilted higher than usual. She tried to continued reading, but she couldn't concentrated, she couldn't think, she couldn't—

The feeling rose again, and she dashed behind the beaded curtain of the shop to the backroom. She meandered her way through the stacks upon stacks of books and crates, desperate to reach the backdoor before her power exploded, like it had before.

She loved Sam. She really did. But that didn't stop him from doing stupid things. It didn't stop him from going to _Mandasura_ , paradise of devils. Known as the most famous den in Ankura—for high-risk gambling, prostitution, black market dealings, and, of course, of course, of course, fighting rings. Dogs, people, and otherwise. Otherwise being Fae and witches and creatures of magic and humans high on _Amrita_ , an elixir to an immortal life in the Mandaran mythology, but coined for a street drug claimed to make one feel as powerful as a god, and it probably could as it was magic based.

It was a thousand times worse than the underworld of Rifthold.

She'd tried shouting his name. But he was in the ring, and he was concentrating on his opponent. His opponent—bloodshot and trembling and explosive from too much _Amrita_. Celaena had had half the mind to climb into the ring to beat up the both of them, but she figured Sam deserved a lesson, and she figured it'd hurt more if she stood to the side and know that she was watching him.

And it did. His expression grew pained when he locked eyes with her, which allowed his opponent to land a blow on his ribs. She flinched, despite herself. The entire time, worry ran through her. She couldn't quite tell if Sam was faking it or if he was truly losing. The man landed more blows on him than he managed to deliver to him. When Sam received a nasty punch in the ear and fell to the floor, Celaena screamed.

She was about to climb into the ring, feeling all of that magic rise in her, letting it ride her, but Sam was back on his feet before she could push to the very front of crowd, and he was sweeping the man off of his feet. Sam gripped his pony tail and used it to pull the man's head up, only to slam it back onto the ground. He didn't get up after that, and Sam was declared the winner. Half of the room shouted in disappointment and the other half laughed.

He was out of the ring in seconds, and then she was pulling him into the crowd, and—Gods, why were there so many people? She pushed them all of out her way, desperate for air, desperate for home. Then they were finally free, and they were standing in the streets, under a string of lanterns. People stopped to stare at them as she started to shout at Sam in the Erilean common tongue. She didn't know if they could understand her, and she didn't know if she cared.

"How could you be so stupid?" She shoved him. "You could be killed! Don't you know what the drug does?"

He didn't reply, which was probably a good thing because all she wanted to do was yell at him. She couldn't quite bring herself to care about what he had to say. It would all be horseshit anyway. Nothing was worth more than his life. _Nothing._

Then she was running home, her feet pounding on the dirt streets, drumming her anger, her fire into it. She remembered Sam shouting for her to come back. She remembered him chasing after her, but she had been too fast for him—nothing could outrun wildfire.

But that was it. Her memories stopped there. But the next morning, the shop—the brand new one they had bought from a previously ambitious, talentless, bankrupt jeweler—had been buried in ashes, and it had been considered a miracle—and witchcraft—that Celaena had been found, unharmed, among them.

Her hand was on the doorknob, fumbling to turn it. But it was rusty and old because that was all they could afford, and at best, it was a pain to open. At worst, it wouldn't at all. Gods, this was not her day.

Something sparked and she jumped. When she took the knob in her hand in her rush to leave, it was warm. A panic rose in her, and she wanted to scream and cry and _explode_.

A hand fell on her shoulder. The grip was firm and comforting, and she felt a sense of calming. The fire in her wavered into an ember.

Celaena turned and looked the Fae woman dead in her charcoal eyes, and both of them knew exactly what the other was. It felt like looking into a mirror.

"My name is Devika," she said. In the common tongue. Not Madhavi, but the common tongue… "And I can help you."

Celaena stared at her, dumbfounded.

The woman—Devika—smiled. "If you let me, of course."

A ringing from the shop interrupted their moment, and Celaena glanced in the direction of the sound's origin. She returned her attention to the woman, half expecting her to be gone, fully thinking she had just experienced a stupor. But Devika still stood there, and she was still smiling.

* * *

Crown Prince Dorian Havilliard tapped his fingers on the desk of his best friend impatiently, thinking of brutal ways to murder his father. It was blasphemy, of course, but what son didn't dream of slaughtering his parents at one point?

"Why are you here, Dorian?" Chaol said, looking up from a stack of papers. When they had been children, Dorian had always imagined that Chaol would become Captain. But he'd also imagined that Chaol would spend all his waking hours with Dorian, protecting him from evil assassins and perhaps even dragons.

Dorian knew better now.

"I need…" he said, "a Champion…"

Chaol sighed. "I thought there wasn't one suitable for you. Not one good enough."

"That doesn't matter anymore. I still need one, and I need one soon." _I need to win_ , he thought. But that wasn't likely.

A few weeks ago, he had given up. The competition was a waste of time, a farce, a way to keep his father's advisors in check and entertained. It didn't matter in the long run. But his father's comments at dinner the previous night…

 _Coward._

 _Whore._

 _No good son of—_

Dorian needed to win.

And he needed to do it with a bang.

He leaned backwards, resting his weight on his hands which held him propped up on Chaol's desk. Dorian could feel Chaol's eye roll, which was followed by dropping his pen and, Dorian knew, leaning back into his chair.

The prince waited for his friend to speak.

"While I do appreciate the sight of your back muscles," he eventually said, "I do have work to do. Your father would fire me if he believed I were inadequate."

 _My father can go to hell._

"The Assassin's Guild," Dorian muttered.

" _What_?"

"The Assassin's Guild," Dorian repeated louder.

"Absolutely not, Dorian! We will do no such thing! It's an unnecessary risk for your safety." He hissed the last word. "Even if we managed to _find_ someone, how well do you think they'd respond to the Crown Prince? _No_. No one from the Guild would have a motive to fight for you in the Championship. They'd sooner kidnap and ransom you."

"Arobynn Hamel," Dorian whispered, "would have a motive to send one of his henchmen. Maybe for the money, but definitely for immunity. Think about it. I'm sure my father would be more than willing to turn a blind eye to the Guild, especially if their victims were his enemies."

"Dorian," Chaol sighed. "It's an idiotic idea. It's not even an idea. It's a death wish."

"It's bold," Dorian insisted.

"Like you need your father's attention," Chaol said sarcastically.

"Not his attention." Gods knew he had enough of that these days. No, what he needed to do was lash out. Dorian corrected, "His disproval."


	3. Chapter 3

Devika did not appear again for two weeks. Just when Celaena began to believe it had all been a dream, she came back. Like she said she would.

"There are… things I must do," Devika had said. Celaena had not pried. Prying was for the clingy, those who were stupid enough to think they deserved more than what they had earned.

Over the next fortnight, Celaena had fidgeted. Devika was able to tame her wildfire, and she was half tempted to chain the women to her the next time they met. She told Sam nothing. She would never tell him anything—not when she couldn't even tell it to herself. What he didn't know couldn't hurt him, after all.

"It burns you, doesn't it? Your power? Your secrets?"

"Nothing bothers me." The lie was easy. Easily forged in her hidden heart. Easily slipped out of her mouth like a truth.

Well, not a truth. Truths were hard to speak of.

Like a secret.

Secrets burned to get out, after all.

Not that hers did. No, she had buried them so deeply, that if she told them to anyone, it would shake the very foundations Celaena Sardothien stood on. Possibly, it would destroy her.

Devika peered at her in such a way that Celaena wondered if she had the power to read her thoughts. In the end, the Fae woman shrugged and simply said, "If you say so."

"How do I conceal my power?" Celaena asked, preferring this area of conversation more than the one Devika had started them in.

"I thought it did not bother you," Devika said smoothly.

Celaena scowled.

"Fine," Devika sighed. "What is your name? Your real one? Maria is pretty, but Maria is a mask."

"Celaena," she said. "Celaena Sardothien."

Devika grumbled. "A half-lie, but one I will accept… for now… Celaena."

She let out a breath she had been holding from the moment she'd stepped onto the continent, all those months ago, the weight of her old identity no longer being upheld by just Sam and herself. Devika shared the burden too now.

There was, of course, the fact that Celaena could trust no one, but Devika had an aura and a demeanor which Celaena naturally gravitated towards, which was also a reason why she hadn't snapped many nasty or sarcastic comments at her. She'd always been told nasty rumors about the Fae, but…

She didn't trust her completely, of course—Celaena trusted no one completely—but she figured there was a strong chance Devika would not deign to reveal the location and vulnerability of Celaena Sardothien to her enemies, her very lowly human enemies.

"What scares you?" Devika continued their conversation—interrogation, it felt like—with.

Celaena inhaled another deep breath. It filled her lungs to the point that they felt like they'd burst, but it was better for her lungs to explode than for her will and heart to shatter.

"Being poor," she said honestly.

Devika clicked her tongue in disgust.

"Sam dying. Our past catching up to us and slitting our throats. My old mentor deciding he isn't done with me. The fire inside me burning me out, or burning the whole world to ash," she said, lifting her foot to let that one slip out. One slip, one secret, at a time. She could admit now that her power scared her. Everything else, however, would stay locked up for now, and she could face it all later.

"Sam is a much better name than Isaac," was all Devika said. "Much easier to pronounce, much simpler."

Drat! She'd let his name slip out as well. She hadn't even thought of protecting his name too. Although, the words _Celaena Sardothien_ were practically attached to _Sam Cortland_. All anyone would have to do was ask one right question to one right person.

"Look who's talking," Celaena said dryly. _Devika_ was a very pretty name, but Celaena knew she had butchered it several times, even if the inconsonant syllables had barely been noticeable to even herself. She'd perfect her Madhavi, but foreign words, and names, still caused her tongue to stumble.

"Your husband is near," Devika said, ignoring her. "I assume you don't wish for him to seem me?"

She hesitated. "I don't," she whispered. One day, she would tell him everything. One day.

* * *

He let Chaol arrange everything. It had been the Captain's only demand once he had realized the Crown Prince would not give up in his foolish pursuit of a Champion— _one who will win_ , Dorian had emphasized. Numerous times, as his best friend insisted on forgetting them every few minutes.

He sat in a café. Among the eaters, Dorian could not see any he recognized, but he had met and forgotten many, many people in his princely lifetime. "I doubt anyone of importance will recognize you," Chaol said, although his voice was sharp and edged.

"The importance of the source does not affect the travel of the gossip, I can assure you that," Dorian scoffed, but he was not, in fact, worried about the gossip.

He was worried because… well, he did not why.

Arobynn Hamel—or the man impostering him, Dorian presumed—walked into the café, already striding towards the prince, and a hush fell. The first thing Dorian noticed was his clothes and that they were white. Interesting, considering Dorian had guessed black was the attire of most assassins—and their actors. They had to hide the blood somehow.

The second thing he noticed about him was that he was alone.

"The Crown Prince of Adarlan," he crooned, pulling out the chair across from Dorian and sitting down with the grace of a spider.

"The actor impersonating the man who selected and placed every person in this room so strategically," Dorian said in response in the same tone, wearing the same expression.

"You're a clever, little prince," the man chuckled. "I'll have you know that I'm not an actor. You asked for me, and I'm not one to refuse royalty."

Dorian doubted it.

" _Dorian_ ," Chaol hissed. He sat beside him. Two guards flanked the boys. Four to twenty was not an odd that Dorian liked, so he supposed he would have to negotiate carefully and successfully.

"Tell your dog to calm himself down. While the men and women here will not kill him unless they feel threatened, or I tell them to, they are quite jumpy. Now, I must ask how you discovered my little trick before your Captain of the Guard did." _I thought princes were stupid_ , his eyes seemed to say.

 _I am_ , Dorian thought. "I am a fan of popular fiction," he said.

The man across from him smiled and reclined in his chair. "I hate to cut to the chase, but the company you keep doesn't seem to appreciate our small talk. Proceed with the business proposal you came to present me with, I implore you, Your Highness."

Dorian had not even realized that the man had not bowed to him, and he had not uttered the title earlier either. _Say_ please _first_ , Dorian thought.

"My father is holding a competition. He wants someone to act as his Champion, to perform his dirty work for him. His closest advisors have been instructed to select a suitable candidate. I want to win."

 _You want to lose your life_ , he knew Chaol wanted to mutter, but he kept his mouth shut. Dorian could feel his friend seething with rage at his stupidity. Their stupidity.

"You wish to hire one of my assassins?" the man who Dorian decided was _not_ Arobynn Hamel clarified.

"Yes," he nodded. "But the payment will be unusual."

"How so?" the man said.

"He—or she—will not be payed to compete. If he does win, he will be indentured to my father's service for six years, and all past crimes will be pardoned once he has retired from the position. My father will pay him for individual jobs—very highly. You and your Assassins' Guild will be granted amnesty for your… indiscretions, so long as they do not interfere with or oppose the crown's interests."

"How long will the amnesty last for?"

"As long as someone of your employ works for my father."

Dorian was inventing the terms on the spot. He did not know what his father would or would not allow, but he knew that the king would go along with whatever benefited him above anyone else involved in the deal.

"Do you suppose that this… Champion will be replaced at the end of this six year indenture?"

"It depends upon whether or not he satisfies the king," he answered with certainty.

The man sighed…

… and smiled.

"Very well," he said. "I will select your Champion, and he will come to you by the end of the week."

"Where will I have the pleasure of meeting him?" Dorian asked. He let out a shaky breath of relief. Thank the gods, this had not ended in bloodshed. He had always thought that his head looked much prettier when it was attached to his body, and his body was much more appealing to women when it wasn't riddled with holes.

"He will come to you in your rooms," the man said dismissively.

"How will he get past the guards?" Chaol demanded. Out of the corner of Dorian's eye, he could see Chaol's hand reaching for the pommel of his sword.

"If he couldn't, then His Highness wouldn't want him," the man said simply.

He left.


End file.
